It was, as I say, sound advice, and, yet, like most of the advice I’ve ever been given, entirely useless. Clearly, I had already annoyed him. I’d probably awakened him from a sound sleep. And from my own recent experience, I knew just how aggravating that can be. On the other hand, the snake had annoyed me, too -- annoyed me in fact into a state of near-paralysis. I was even afraid to breathe.

In the meantime, maintaining my position on a steep incline while the sun beat down and the pail of water seemed to double in weight every few seconds, reminded me that I could not impersonate a statue indefinitely. I strained to hear him slither away, but so far as I could tell, he, too, had stopped breathing, and was just lying in wait, poised to strike.

Finally, I made a carefully calculated decision. I decided to run as fast as I could, figuring I had the element of surprise on my side. Besides, if worse came to worst, my friends, I assumed, would carry me back to civilization, from whence I silently swore never again to roam.

By the time I safely reached the bottom of the hill, Barry wanted to know what had taken me so long. I couldn’t believe my ears. I exploded: “Did you think I invented that rattlesnake?”

“He only rattled because you’d frightened him. I guarantee he was gone in two seconds.”

“Well, I wish he’d taken a moment to say good-bye.”

The next 24 hours were relatively uneventful. I spent most of the time reminding myself how much I was hating the experience, so that, if, say, 20 years down the road, somebody suggested another such adventure, the first words out of my mouth would be, “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to bash you in the head with a baseball bat.”

The oddest thing of all is that the following afternoon, just as the three of us trekked out of the woods to find Steve’s mother waiting for us, I found I didn’t want a peach. I was dying for a hamburger.